Unfinished Business
by badriddance
Summary: Emma Frost decides to put a stop to the mental rumblings she picks up from a captive Sabretooth. As always, there's more to his mind than she expects.
1. 1 Unease

She didn't like having Sabretooth in such close quarters. He was many floors and doors away but she was still too aware of him. She didn't have enhanced senses to smell him, but she could catch a psychic whiff of his thoughts. The malice rolled off him like musk. Having him around felt like a tetanus shot to her mind. She put up with it for a few days before he finally fell asleep.

_**Finally**_, she thought. She was sick of 'hearing' him rumble and purr over his many ideas on what he would do to all of them as soon as guards were dropped. The little glimpses of those ideas that she had caught had left her jaws tired from being clenching so tightly. There was a definite downside to telepathy. The upside was that she could so something about it.

She sent her own thoughts out, intending to skewer the fluttering notions like butterflies. There was all sorts of damage she could do while she was there if she wanted. He wasn't the only one who could take advantage of a dropped guard. Lucky for him, she was able to rise above her own murderous impulses. At least she was **this** time.

Her mind touched his and it was like being in the room with him. She could see the room because **he** knew what it looked like. He had trashed the room, of course, scoring the walls with claw marks and tearing the furniture to pieces.

He wasn't one to suffer unnecessarily though. He had left the cot intact. That's where he was sprawled now, breathing slow and deep. His breath caught, and she wondered for a heartbeat if he was aware of her. He settled down again at once, and while she was listening to see if he had somehow sensed her trespassing, she became aware of something else.

Outside of someone's mind, it would've been a sound. It was faint, barely a murmur, but out of place. It was like waking up in the middle of the night and hearing the faint hum of a radio you were certain you hadn't left on.

She went deeper, looking for the source of the 'sound'. It was easy to imagine this situation as a physical one. She could be sneaking quietly through a house instead of a mind, a dark, stained hallway of a charnel house. Who was whispering down in the basement?

It wasn't Victor, she realized after a moment. She allowed herself a bitter smirk at the thought of Creed having a conscience desperate to make itself heard, only getting a word in when he was asleep. The closer she got, the more like a voice it seemed like. It was almost crooning.

Unease prickled along her senses. This was weird. She had been in sociopathic minds before and never had anything like this. There had been other voices in some of them, but they had all come from splintered pieces of the host's mind. She had encountered hitchhiking telepath-ish entities that were making themselves at home, all manner of unstable minds and manifested dementia, alien consciousnesses, mental parasites, that sort of thing. She wasn't sure why a whispered lullaby in a killer's brain worried her like it was. And she wasn't the type to be worried for very long before she decided to do something about it.

She had come to his mind to silence his bloodthirsty plans for escape and revenge. She could do that. She could handle the unknown voice too. _Time for Creed to be __**quiet**_, she told herself, and sank into the cellar of his mind.


	2. 2 Unearth

It was dark, but she could 'see'. It was a weird recreation of the physical room he was being held in, but there was the memory of another prison just beneath it. The institute's cell was a mental image almost superimposed over an older, more painful memory of what looked like a root cellar. Recollections of scents and aches brushed over her, but she ignored them to focus on the scene.

He was laying on the floor, just as in reality, he was laying in the cot. Next to his sleeping body, knelt what Emma had to assume was a woman. It was too tangible to be a memory, and it didn't feel like a dream. Emma made herself as scarce as possible, so it wouldn't notice her, if it could.

"Sleep now," it whispered. "They won't dare hurt you . They're all afraid of you, as well they should be."

The voice was female too, and now that Emma was closer, she could see that it was an older woman in a shapeless dress and a scarf over her head. That was odd enough in Victor's head, but the bloodied axe and Bible on the 'floor' next to her seemed even more surreal.

'They've locked you up," she went on, glancing around. "But you can't be held for long. No one has ever been able to keep you locked up for long… not even when you were a child… You'll escape. And they'll pay."

Intrigued in spite of herself, Emma crept closer. The woman was tenderly stroking Victor's hair back off his forehead. Was this some bizarre fantasy of his? Some deep-rooted psychosis given shape? A manifestation of whatever might pass for a conscience in a killer's brain? Or was it some outside influence on his mind? There was only one way to be sure.

She had to re-extend her psychic power again. She sent it creeping into the apparition, searching for any kind of independent sentience, anything that wasn't _**Victor**_. To her shock, nothing in it was him. It was like a whole extra person, sitting in his head. It wasn't schizophrenia. And if he had a second personality, she was almost sure it wouldn't be a middle-aged woman in unflattering, heavy shoes.

"You're bigger than them, you're stronger than them," she continued to croon. "They think they've won, but it'll just make it that much sweeter when the tables are turned…"

There was a bitterness there, a carefully nurtured spite. Even knowing what to expect in his head, Emma was startled by the depth of the need to cause harm. _Is he possessed? _She wondered wildly. _Is it possible that what we know as Sabretooth is actually being caused by something else??_

She dismissed that notion at once and refocused on the apparition. Whatever it was, there was a mind in it. Anything with a mind was hers to toy with. She sank her telepathic fingers into its thoughts and went feeling around. There was a bizarrely maternal affection towards the towering psychopath asleep in her lap that was like being engulfed in itchy-warm pink insulation. But like his overlaying memories of cell and cellar, that affection was all that kept a very old lust for revenge from the surface.

_What the hell…? _Emma thought. She went deeper, finding a slideshow of past victims, all watched with malicious glee from the sidelines by the apparition. It was only fair. She had suffered enough, now it was someone else's turn. It was _**everyone**_ else's turn….

There were memories of a man.

_Figures. _

A husband, loud and hard-handed. It had always been her fault; everything, even the color of the walls. She had been weak, and had been punished for her failings. It was her God-given duty to serve her husband and give him sons.

_Oh please. _

The first she had managed, barely, under her man's rules. Something had gone wrong with the son, though.

At first she'd been so happy. It had nearly killed her to have him, but she had done it. The doctor had said she wouldn't be able to have any more after her first, but it had been worth it. Such a strong, healthy baby! He had looked like her own father, who had taken such good care of her. He hadn't cried very much, and had never been sick. He had been hungry constantly, and she had been proud of that too. But then his first teeth had come in, sharp and pointed.

_Holy God. This crazy bitch is his MOTHER…_

The husband had been unnerved. She had been secretly pleased to see him uncomfortable. Her baby would be better than him. The preacher had been brought in. She had never liked him. He was the one who had said the husband was right to hit her when she hadn't wanted him to touch her the way he did.

_Hyeah. And you didn't poison the bastard's Sunday dinner?_

They had said there was a way to fix it. They had been wrong. All they had done was hurt the boy. She took care of him afterwards. He was a good boy. He had only cried a little, and had healed up quickly. But things had only gotten worse. The men kept trying. The teeth and claws kept growing back.

The preacher had said that was unnatural. He had said it was the devil's work. He had said more needed to be done. She had been able to bear it when they had told her that the boy would be whole and perfect when their task was done. But then they're task changed from cleansing the boy to destroying the demon. She had tried to stop them and been beaten down for her weakness.

_So you just gave in? _

It had gone too far. In the end, she had broken again and begged them to leave him alone. To give her her son back. The husband had lost his temper, like always. Then the memory blurred along the edge of an axe.

She remembered dying. She was so used to him hitting her that the axe had only registered as an especially cruel strike. She had heard her own skull crunch and felt wet warmth on her face and then nothing. Then she had been there again, ignoring her own crumpled body as she watched her son tear the husband and the preacher apart.

_And you're PROUD of that??… Well, ok, I can see that part._

He had still been hurting though. Her baby. He was hungry and hurt and so angry. He needed her now, more than ever. So she had followed him. Clung to him. Made herself a part of him. He was hers again. She would make sure he would never suffer that way again. Never suffer as she had.

He was stronger than she had been. He could fight back as she couldn't. He could make them pay as she hadn't been able to.

_Fine, _Emma thought_. So it closer to possession than I thought. Still, it can be dealt with. _

She pulled back and began to make her mental way out. On the way, she shut down a few switches. The mother figure looked up sharply, but it was too late. Creed would sleep and stay asleep until she was ready to deal with him.


	3. 3 Undone

Victor didn't move the next day. They waited and spoke to him and some food was left for him. He didn't make a sound, other than some sniffing noises when he caught a whiff of the chicken that Sam had made. Any passing telepathic glances to see if he was planning anything would only find him asleep. Even a more probing telepathic look wouldn't be able to tell what was wrong. Emma knew her stuff.

She let him sleep for two more days to prepare herself. By then, the professor was looking thoughtful and had cocked one of his Vulcan eyebrows at her. That was fine. As long as he didn't get in the way. Logan was looking suspicious too, but not at her. He made it a point to glare into the cell at least once a day.

Finally, another night fell over the Institute. Emma pulled on her least revealing nightgown and made herself comfortable on her bed. The gown reached her knees and covered most of her from there to her chest. It made up for that modesty by being almost transparent.

It would be easier to do this at close range of course, but she had no doubt she could do it from her own room. No witnesses, also. She relaxed her body and sent her mind out. It found its way back to his mind easily and slipped back down the empty halls. There was graffiti on them now, promising pain to all telepaths.

_Impressive._ He knew something had been done to him. Even asleep, he knew he should be awake and was fighting it.

"Who's there?" called the mother's voice. She sounded angry, and Emma wasn't surprised to see her holding the axe. The woman's snarl faded as the telepath made her presence visible. Her expression went from startled to scandalized and back again.

"It is time," Emma said. "For you to go."

"You're an angel then," the woman relaxed a bit, but couldn't help but glance over the sheer nightie with some unease. "But the Lord knows I still have work to do."

"You," Emma made her mental voice cold enough to hurt. "Have done enough. Your time is done." The woman flinched.

"He still needs me!" she protested, clutching the axe to her chest.

"If you'd been this protective of him before, it wouldn't have come to this," Emma drew herself up, letting the gown billow around her in a mental gust of power. The woman's distressed face fell open in horror.

"You should've smothered that man in his sleep the first time he ever raised hand to you," Emma went on relentlessly. Her voice was a mix of contempt and mockery that she had perfected when she was a teenager. Years later, it had been refined to cut to the marrow. "You **wanted **to. You just didn't have the spine."

"What..? No! I was a good wife! I-"

"You let that bastard hurt you, and you let him hurt your son. Who knows what he and that sick preacher did to your boy down there in the dark?" She sent images and suggestion with those words and smirked as the woman's expression contorted. " And **you.** **Let** it happen. If you had had the guts to stand up to him **then**, we wouldn't be here **now**."

Emma's voice softened to a more pitying condescension. "You could've raised him yourself. You could've taught him to protect people like you from people like your husband. He could've been good. You could've been happy. Both of you. You could've painted the whole house whatever shade of blue you wanted. You could've slept in on Saturday mornings and gone out at night to see a movie or play bingo or whatever. You could've seen him graduate, or get married. You could've had grandchildren to fuss over."

"Stop!" the woman screamed. She lunged toward Emma's manifestation and was skewered through the chest by psychic power. She shrieked and the sleeping Victor stirred.

"But you didn't," Emma sighed as if disappointed. She began to break down the mother's mind and with it her manifestation. A hole opened where the woman had been impaled and began to slowly spread as all that kept her in existence began to crumble under Emma's assault. "You were too scared. And now that you're dead, you think there's nothing left to be afraid of. But there **is**, Mrs. Creed. And it's **ME**."

"No!!" the woman roared. The hole in her chest was now the size of a plate. She had nothing inside. It wasn't a real body, but it oozed a purplish mist that dissolved into nothing as it wafted out.

"And you've used your son to do all the things you never could bring yourself to. He's killed everyone who crossed him with you there, whispering encouragement." Emma's voice was cold again. The hole had spread to the woman's naval and collarbone.

"After so long of being a victim, you had the perfect revenge. You could Ride your son, and use him to hurt people as you been hurt, violate as you had been violated, kill as you had been killed."

The hole went wide enough to divide the woman's body in half. She fell in two pieces, still screaming.

"He would've always had an animal side, but he might've overcome it. Only you wouldn't let him. Now, he's a monster. **Your **monster. Too strong and mean and badass for anyone to ever hurt again. You wanted to protect him, but couldn't make yourself do it. When you lost your limitations, you tried to protect him again. But, you went about it the wrong way and now, it has ruined you both. "

"Demon!" the woman sobbed. She was now just a head and a hand and two legs from the knees down. Emma laughed.

"You caught it from your husband," she said. "Like some twisted STD. He infected you with a taste to be right and to enforce that rightness with pain. And you've passed it on to your son. Don't think of it as an exorcism, Mrs. Creed. Think of it as a cure."

The mother vanished with a final wail of despair and then she was gone. Emma took a moment to search for any traces of her consciousness and found nothing. All that was left was the axe, still bloody.

_So I lied,_ she thought, looking at the weapon. _It's not even close to a cure. But every little bit helps. And this is a start. _ Creed's sleeping self grunted. She could feel him waking up. Some part of his subconscious was swimming toward the surface. She gave it a mental kick back to the bottom. He could stay put until morning.

"Or maybe…" she said aloud to the sleeping shape, even as she pulled away back to her own bed. "It's an end."


End file.
